


Marrow

by Kalael



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Because that series is wonderful and perfect and gives me feelings, Eating Disorders, Gen, Human AU, This is basically written for Duckgomery's 'This Old House' I can't even pretend otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalael/pseuds/Kalael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a different way to disappear.</p><p>(A fraction of a journey through ED)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Battle of the Holidays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/754483) by [Duckgomery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckgomery/pseuds/Duckgomery). 



> heeeeyyyy this series is probably a little triggering for people who have/had ED so keep that in mind okay?

There is something strangely satisfying about the way his fingers grow thinner and thinner with each passing week. The bits of fat that once padded around the bones, the flaps of skin in the dip between each finger, the flesh of his palm. They all dissolve, leaving behind nothing but bones.

Kneecaps and scapulae and jutting iliac crests, sharp elbows and defined collarbones. Wrists so thin they look like they might snap in the wind.

He doesn't think about it much, not when he's with the others. He drinks coffee and laughs and when they ask he sits down to dinner. More often than not he hides his empty plate with his sleeves, and washes the clean dish when the others have gone.

It’s a different way to disappear. It’s slow and long and somedays he breaks down crying, unable to feel his own hands.

He breathes and he can feel his ribs pressing against his skin, can feel every bump and dip of them, but he can barely feel his heart beating.

The hollow of his stomach doesn’t hurt anymore, long past that point. He eats on occasion, fruit or nuts, a cookie depending on who offers. It sits like lead until he can escape, until he can shove his skinny fingers down his throat and regurgitate.

He stares at his hands, counts the knuckles, folds them against his chest where he can feel his sternum.

It’s satisfying, really, to watch himself waste away.


	2. Numbers

We are made of numbers. Mathematics has control of the universe. We are percentages, statistics, the years we have lived, the rise and fall of a chart, the marks on a tape measure.

We are the numbers on a scale, the amount of calories we eat, the size of jeans we wear.

Jack picks his sweaters two times too big because he feels small inside the draping fabric. He tears off the tags and throws them away with the uneaten sandwiches he buys for appearances. He hasn’t bought new jeans in ages—they don’t fit anymore, he has to wear a belt, but he doesn’t mind.

He feels small.

Waist size 24.

He guzzles water so the doctor doesn’t catch on when he goes in with a cold (but he’s always cold, always freezing).

Waist size 22.

The alcohol sinks into his veins and he can feel every calorie from the mixer, but that’s okay, he’ll drink enough that he’ll just throw it up later.

Waist size 20.

He marks the calories in a notebook in his back pocket and when he exceeds six hundred it’s a bad day. He punishes himself by missing dinner and the others don’t question it when he walks in and goes to his room, where he wraps himself in loose sleeves and presses his palms to his hips where he can feel the nonexistent flab swelling as his brain screams _you fucked up kid you fattie you ugly shit—_

He is worth the number on the scale, getting smaller, losing value. The closer the needle moves towards zero the better he feels.

He’ll be just as empty as that hollow circle one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one DEFINITELY was written with Duckgomery's Jack in mind asdfgh


	3. Scales

They don’t allow him a scale at ‘summer camp’ and it’s almost worse than the nurses who stand outside the bathroom door after meals to make sure none of the patients try to purge.

Jack had tried it once. He hadn’t been able to get anything out before the doors slammed open and one of the nurses was on him like Pitch on coffee.

It hadn’t even been one of the male nurses, which would have been disappointing if it weren’t so fucking awful that they wouldn’t just leave him be.

“I’m fine.” He says to the therapist

“You’re fine.” The other patients agree. They compare ribcages and scars and calories and it’s a sort of camaraderie, all of them marching steadily towards death with each meal they skip out on. One girl swipes a pencil sharpener and the next day she’s gone, just a bundle of sheets left behind, and Jack knows why the women’s showers are closed when the janitors haul out the bleach.

He’s never been one to self-harm, though the doctors would argue that his eating habits are a form of it. It isn’t self harm.

He’s fine.

He’s less fine when they weigh him and he’s gained a full five pounds. The nurses restrain him as he spits and curses and eventually dissolves into sobs, sinking into a heap on the floor with the scale staring accusingly back. Every pound is a stone in his pocket, pulling him down until he drowns.

The anxiety makes it hard to keep anything in his stomach, even if he wants to. They put him on an IV when he passes out with a fever, a liquid diet of nutrients poured straight into his blood. He doesn’t mind that as much. It doesn’t sit like lead in his stomach.

Sometimes Jack wishes that he were dead. They weigh him and he sees the scales tip. Higher numbers, higher chance of survival, higher chance of suicide. He doesn’t really want to die but he can’t live like this. The IV itches. They splint his arm down to keep him from scratching. He focuses on the cold stream of fluids that he can feel at the point where the needles is inserted into him, and he tries not to hate it. It’s keeping him alive and he doesn’t want to die yet. He doesn’t want to leave the others behind.

Scales swinging like pendulums turn to bones in his dreams and he wakes up in a cold sweat, swallowing down air and trying to pull himself together.

He can't die yet. He has to keep trying. He came for a reason and he won't fail.

The next time they weigh him he inhales through his teeth and fights back the tears.

He won't fail.


	4. Relapse

They didn’t tell him that he would relapse after they released him. They mentioned that it happens, covered it in therapy during the healing process because everyone relapses. It’s okay, just keep going. You can’t always be strong.

But that was when he was still at the hospital, and now that he’s finally home Jack can’t stop shaking. He flushes the toilet once, twice, three times even though there’s nothing left in the bowl aside from blue-tinted water. The toothbrush is in the trash can. He can’t stand to look at it now.

The worst part is that his stomach still feels heavy, despite the fact that he knows that it’s empty now.

He doesn’t move for a long time, simply slumps over on the bathroom floor and curls his fingers into the rug. That’s how Pitch finds him an hour later.

“Jack...” Pitch pauses in the doorway and just looks at him. Jack can’t meet his eyes, can’t stop shaking. PItch doesn’t say anything else, just falls to his knees and gathers Jack into his arms. The silent support makes Jack burst into tears, and he clutches onto Pitch as his shaking turns into sobs.

Neither of them says a word, even though it’s obvious what had happened. Jack keeps waiting for the disappointed expression, the harsh words, but they never come. Pitch just rocks him slowly as the tears come seemingly without end. Each time Jack thinks that he’s calming down a new wave of self-loathing and pity washes over him, bringing a new round of sobs.

He cries until his eyes are sore and his head hurts and there are no more tears left. He’s a small, shuddering mess in Pitch’s arms and he is acutely aware of every part of himself that has gained weight since his return home.

He’s supposed to be healthy now, isn’t he?

“It’s okay.” Pitch says softly, running a hand through Jack’s hair. “It’s going to be alright.”

“Okay.” Jack agrees. His voice is hoarse and his throat burns.

“Do you believe me?” Pitch asks. Jack doesn’t respond right away. Pitch’s hands are warm and he feels so cold. His hands still shake.

“Yes.” And he really does.


	5. Normalcy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me what I'm doing with this because I'm not totally sure myself anymore. I just write when I feel like it.

When it starts, he hardly realizes what he's doing. It's easy enough to skip lunch, with how busy he is at school. Breakfast becomes a sporadic event and eventually he phases out grocery shopping, seeing no need to buy food that will just go bad. He saves money now that he isn't buying more food and he invests in a scale, which he puts under the bed and forgets about for the first three weeks.

He doesn't realize it's a problem. It becomes normal, skipping meals and washing dishes that aren't his own. It doesn't feel like a bad thing. He gets lightheaded and dizzy but he attributes it to being tired. His stomach growls sometimes and he will nibble on what he can find, leftovers in the fridge that usually belong to Aster and have the aded bonus of pissing the guy off. He admits it may be dangerous when he sits down for a full meal at dinner and can only make it halfway through before feeling like throwing up.

Eventually that begins to feel normal as well.

Jack steps on the scale for the first time since he bought it and notes that there is a difference of five pounds. It's not a big change, but it's enough to know that what he is doing is _working_.

He cuts out dinner that week and normal begins to feel very much like an empty stomach and steadily shrinking numbers written on the inside of his wrist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PROLLY SHOULDA MENTIONED THAT THIS ONE IS THE BEGINNING OF EVERYTHING
> 
> JACK HASN'T FALLEN BACK INTO OLD HABITS
> 
> YET
> 
> (because ahaha god wow it's hard to stay away forever bb Jack)


	6. Chapter 6

Recovery is not a destination, Jack tells himself. It’s a journey and it’s okay if it doesn’t follow a straight upward pattern. It’s a lot of highs and lows, it’s a lot of failure, but it’s also a lot of small successes. Bit by bit he recovers, and even if that chapter of his life never really closes, he has faith where he didn’t before.

“Jack, did you eat my carrot cake?” Aster demands loudly from the kitchen. Jack pauses mid-chew to look down at the carrot cake on his plate. He knew full well that it was Aster’s when he took it, and even with Aster standing in the doorway of the kitchen Jack can’t bring himself to feel the slightest bit of remorse. He grins and swallows.

“If it’s any sort of comfort, it tastes fucking delicious.” Jack offers up. Aster has a sour expression on his face but he doesn’t say anything. Jack takes that moment to shove another forkful of carrot cake into his mouth, and that action makes Aster’s shoulders relax.

“I’m going to start spiking my food with hot sauce.” He warns as he retreats back into the kitchen. Jack coughs out a laugh around his mouthful of food and Pitch shoots him a fondly irritated look over his newspaper.

The carrot cake really does taste good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk it's probably a bit obvious that I was writing this to deal with my own emotions about my past ED and recovery process. I'd like to think this is the final chapter of Marrow because although, like Jack, I doubt that my own ED chapter is closed...it's definitely reached a point where it's no longer the main focus of my anxiety. So maybe from here on out I can have my carrot cake too, haha.
> 
> If any of you ever have concerns about ED, please talk to someone you love about it. I guarantee that they will want to help you through it. The biggest part of getting through ED is having a support system and I want you to utilize it even if you think you're burdening people, because you _aren't_.
> 
> You're worth more than the numbers on a scale, the size of your jeans, the bones you can feel under your skin. You are more than a body and you are beautiful.


End file.
